Combustion
by consilience
Summary: Shizuru, with all her talents, knows nothing of warmth.


Combustion

For someone so controlled, she was a surprisingly indulgent person. This, she mused over from the cold floor of her dark dorm room. Curtains strewn, she indulged in the darkness, in the lack of reflection. She liked to imagine her existence as one separate from her body, she liked to fantasize about being removed from who she had to be. In the dark she could not see herself and she was free to sigh, to frown, to express, to writhe, to dream.

Over the years, she had come to despise her living space. Spartan. Sparse. A bed, a desk, several sets of her uniform and some toiletries. In the beginning, she had been pleased with this set up – it had made sense. After all, her only instruction had been simple—

_'Be the best.'_

_ -_ and so she felt her identity need not reflect anything but this simple truth. Anything beyond the necessary would all be excessive.

But things began to chafe. And it started to hurt.

In a moment of openness, Natsuki had allowed her into her apartment. It was unruly, overflowing and chaotic like Natsuki herself. But, she was surprised by the _softness_ that she found. An old but plush sofa, indented with use. Satin lingerie here or there. A rug like the embrace of a bear—stained, yes, but feet do not care for those things. A rounded frame of a girl and her mother. It was a nest to someone who lived and cared for such textures and comforts. It dawned on her then that she knew nothing of homes (she wanted to stay).

Returning to her own room she was engulfed (suddenly, unexpectedly) with an overwhelming sense of hatred. Her furniture, standard issued and unadorned. They were harsh on the edges, roughly cut and jagged. Her floor, cold. Her clothes—neatly ironed, yes, but stiff on the skin. There was not a single item that was her own (a gift? A whim? A guilty pleasure? A comfort?). It appalled her that she had not noticed such a deficiency until now. Since that realization, she began to turn off the lights and shut the curtains whenever possible so that she does not have to see her own shortcoming. While she has adapted to moving in the dark, sometimes, still, she will bump into things, bruising herself, as she fumbles in the senselessness. It is cowardly, she notes; it is the way of the defeated. She could just buy some things, some furnishings to make her feel normal (loved). But she cannot bring herself to do so; somehow (viscerally) she knows that there is something even more wretched about a faked home than no home at all.

Once, in committing one of those unconscious acts that humans never realize they do, she found herself playing (like a child) with Natsuki's lighter. It was the light, she blames. The golden, overwhelming afternoon sun had soaked the room and somehow her reservations left her. Natsuki was borrowing her laptop, and her, idle for once. Drowsy across the table, her hand had found Natsuki's silver lighter which she had left beside her and began flicking it on and off as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her eyes, further intoxicated by the flame. Head, nestled in the crook of her elbow, resting on the table, dreamily gazing. It was a most uncharacteristic position.

"_If you like it so much, you can have it."_

Natsuki had been watching, for how long, she did not know. Naturally, she protested to this quiet offer, she had been polite (embarrassed). Natsuki assured her (curtly) that she did not care. And that is how she came to acquire a lighter. How her room warmed up a bit.

It became a habit then to submerge herself in darkness and flick this lighter on and off. On and off. This small light she could handle. This flickering presence was somehow comforting. Warm in her hands (sometimes burning, searing on the flesh), though the rest of her was cold. It's funny, she thinks, that's exactly what she had been in her mind when she curled up next to Natsuki that one wretched night. Warm where their bodies touched, but otherwise she was frigid. No matter how she positioned herself, she was still cold. Nothing was quite enough.

And so, this final time, she indulged yet again in her little game. She had come straight here after the final confrontation. Disappeared into thin air, sorely unprepared to face the consequences of all that she had not been instructed to do. Things she did of her own accord. Funny how her room had finally become something of a home the moment the rest of her world became her enemy. To remind herself of what she had been, of the only person she knew she was (for that passionate, murderous self she had displayed was oh so foreign), of the source of her light, she flicked—on and off. Fiercely. Mercilessly.

Her breath hitched when she heard the rough friction of the lighter and saw no flame. Over and over she repeated the action , pulse quickening. Still, there was no response.

"It's empty, no, no, please. Don't." She gasped. "I'm so sorry, I—I—please, not right now. I didn't mean to, please come back!" And the darkness was silent as her pleas melt into sobs of the most reluctant kind. "It's empty, it's over, it's over, I'm so sorry." Helplessly distraught, she grasped her now lifeless lighter and mourned over it with her tears.

She failed to hear her first ever visitor enter her home. Step on her cold, hardwood floor and tremble in fear (of the darkness? Of her?). It was not until she felt a dim glow intrude upon her stinging eyes that she lifted her face up and saw Natsuki sitting across from her, knees drawn to chest, a flame flickering in between them.

'_Runaway.' _

They stayed there in silence, she, frozen, Natsuki, shivering. Hesitantly, Natsuki reached towards her petrified hands and slowly uncurled her fingers, one by one (softly) and withdrew the silver lighter at the center. Regarding it for a moment, Natsuki then stood up and left her. Following the glow of the flame, she watched Natsuki as she slowly ambled around the room (taking in the emptiness) before she found a small window by the desk, swept aside the curtain and hurled the lighter out into the early morning.

"Don-!" She began (heartbroken) before realizing it was too late. Several shaky breaths later, she found Natsuki once again before her, holding out her own, living flame.

"This is mine." Natsuki whispered, lifting her eyes up. "Tomorrow, we'll go get you another one—a better one."

A pause.

"Refillable," she added, with a faint smile.

It was a promise (hollow?). A promise of tomorrow. A promise to burn. On Shizuru's lips rested a single word, '_runaway.'_ She mouthed it—meant it- but heard only silence.

Only the combustion of air.


End file.
